One of Life's Little Problems
by Dizzo
Summary: Injuries the brothers can cope with; illness, trauma, PSTD? They've done it all with knobs on.  But this? Well ...
1. Chapter 1

ONE OF LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Okay, so this is an idea that has been teasing me for a while now. I only have the vaguest outline of a story here, so this could go anywhere, but hey, it's nearly Spring, I'm feeling adventurous!

But for those of you brave enought to come along for the ride, usual rules apply: Rated T for a few naughty words, no spoilers and no particular connection to canon.

I see this being predominately humour with a bit of h/c, bit of angst and lots of wits-end-Sam (is that actually a category?)

Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I've said it before; they should be very thankful about that.

xxxxx

Chapter 1

Injuries the brothers can cope with; illness, trauma, PSTD? They've done it all with knobs on.

But this? Well ...

xxxxx

That goddamned skank-tastic witch was one freakin' vindictive bitch.

Not content with persecuting the unfortunate folk of this small backwoods town, she had actually seemed annoyed when the Winchesters turned up on her doorstep inviting her to stop her nefarious activities before she stopped one of their bullets.

And then she had the temerity to look surprised when it all kicked off after she, in return, had cordially invited the brothers to 'go screw themselves'.

Okay, so admittedly, the whole sorry business ended up with them ganking her, but really; there was no need for her to be so damned unpleasant about it. They were only doing their job, after all.

The confrontation had gotten very nasty. Hissing and spitting like a pissed tomcat, she had treated her assailants to a stream of foul-mouthed invective which culminated in a fiery blaze of magical fury, firing both men bodily across the room, and slamming them into the wall.

Just in time, Dean's well-aimed bullet had hit its mark, right between her rage-maddened eyes but not before she had managed to shoot some other powerful, and hitherto unknown, curse in the brothers' direction.

Ducking out of her way, Sam lost sight of his brother as the entire kitchen wall collapsed, dragging with it a collection of hideous framed cat paintings and a massively heavy oaken dresser; it's collective contents, including a set of well-used pots and pans, half-a-dozen rather rancid looking glass jars, two copper ladles, four china cats and a wooden bowl of evil smelling pot-pourri, tumbling and crashing down over the two cowering figures beneath it.

He could only hope Dean had somehow managed to avoid injury in the avalanche of heavy clanging, smashing debris that rained down on top of them.

xxxxx

Clambering timidly out from under the wreckage, Sam coughed and shook a small festival of plasterdust and woodlice from his hair, blinking to clear his dust-glazed eyes, and inched forward on his hands and knees. He winced, cursing as his battered and bruised body protested every move.

Eventually, he rested back on his haunches, softly spluttering through the drifting dust, too dazed to make any kind of realistic attempt to get to his feet.

He scanned the room, still trying to blink some focus back into his hazy, floating vision.

"Dean," he croaked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

He was answered by stifling silence except for a faint, residual ringing in his ears.

"Dean;" a little more urgently this time.

He realised that he couldn't see Dean anywhere in the wrecked room. His brother had completely vanished from view; a not-inconsiderable feat for a man of Dean's proportions.

Cold, hard consciousness snapped back into him in a heartbeat and all at once, he found himself digging through the rubble of brick, splintered wood, and shattered glass with frantic, bleeding hands.

Summoning all his strength, he managed to shift the fallen dresser a few inches and his heart stood still as that small movement revealed the scuffed and dusty toe of Dean's left boot.

"DEAN!"

A tide of strength crashed over him, and instantly he was clambering to his feet, ignoring his spinning head and battered body, as he clumsily lifted the wrecked dresser and wrestled it aside.

The sight that met him turned his blood to ice.

xxxxx

Dean's dust-coated clothes lay pooled in a crumpled heap amidst the wreckage, but there was no sign of Dean. The stray boot that had first attracted Sam's attention lay, abandoned, several inches from the pile of clothes. His other boot, equally unoccupied, lay on its side inamongst a glittering splash of shattered glass.

Sam's knees buckled; "oh, holy crap; DEAN!"

Feeling himself start to panic, Sam's eyes widened in frantic horror; where the hell was Dean? What had that bitch done with him?

Scrabbling through the debris, he began to gather up Dean's clothes, still warm from where they had been wrapped around a living body only moments earlier. He searched relentlessly for any sign or clue of what might have happened to Dean, where he might have gone.

He found what he was looking for almost immediately.

And promptly wished he hadn't.

xxxxx

Sam's jaw dropped helplessly and he let out a breathless croak as the power of coherent speech drained away from him.

"Dean?" It sounded like a pained squeak.

He stared, gaping helplessly like a moron.

Blinking, he rubbed his eyes and then stared and gaped moronically all over again. Under the circumstances it was the only response, short of dropping into a dead faint on the spot, that seemed appropriate as his paralysed mind tried to process the bizarre image which confronted him.

Dean sat on the floor looking up at Sam, the expression on his dust-coated face hovering somewhere between slightly dazed confusion and petulant indignation.

Given that Sam was holding his clothes in an untidy bundle under his arm, Dean was totally butt naked; a fact that barely registered with Sam, despite the fact that such a situation, under normal circumstances, would have buried the needle on the brothers' awkward-ometer.

But Sam was fairly confident that these current circumstances could not be described in any way shape or form as being anywhere in the same ballpark, the same galaxy even, as normal.

The figure that sat staring up at him couldn't have been more than ten inches tall.

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

ONE OF LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Chapter 2

Dean's a little unhappy!

xxxxx

After what seemed like a lifetime, It was Dean that spoke first.

"What the hell are you doin' all the way up there?"

It wasn't a challenging question, but Sam's mind was completely blank – or possibly broken or probably just plain screwed to shit. He should have been relieved to hear his brother speak coherently, except for the fact that the words that came out of Dean's mouth made him sound like he'd inhaled the entire contents of a Goodyear blimp.

"Um …" Sam's mouth worked wordlessly.

"Hey, Sasquatch; what's that bitch done to you?"

"Well, uh, Dean; see …" Sam groped for the right words; still they wouldn't come.

"Holy CRAP! Why am I freakin' naked?"

Sam, in his shock and confusion, had almost overlooked that one small fact, and watched as Dean snatched a crumpled, dusty paper napkin from under the pile of scattered pot-pourri, which really did smell like it had been visited by one of the cats that the witch appeared to love so much, and huffily wrapped it round his waist.

He sneezed as the sudden action dislodged a shower of dust from his bowed head.

"sonofa - freakin' - 'CHOOOOO!' bitch … *snif*

In the time it took Dean to make himself decent, Sam had finally managed to gather the tattered remains of his wits, and crouched down to be close to his brother; "uh Dean, we might have a bit of a problem."

Dean stood glaring up at his brother, hands on his paper wrapped hips.

"You don't say, Sherlock;" he snorted, "I wake up butt naked with you standin'over me like the Statue of freakin' Liberty with my goddamned clothes under your arm. Somethin' you wanna tell me bitch?"

Okay, so Dean's body may have shrunk but his attitude certainly hadn't.

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was just too befuddled for this.

xxxxx

"Dean, I wasn't talking about the nudity," Sam began nervously; "I was talking about this…" Unsure how to break the news to Dean, he settled for dangling one of Dean's socks in front of his tiny brother's face to illustrate his point.

Frowning up at the giant sock dangling in front of him, Dean cocked his head curiously.

Sam saw the moment that the penny dropped; not that it had that far to fall, he reflected.

Dean's eyes widened in horror; "oooooooooh shit …" he croaked.

Sam nodded sympathetically, "yeah dude, she didn't make me big; she shrunk you!"

Now it was Dean's turn to gape helplessly.

Sam took the opportunity to study his new, pocket sized brother. The little figure wasn't childlike, or compressed and wizened like a gnome, or even daintily petite like some little nursery rhyme fairy. This was a perfectly miniaturised replica of his brother complete with tiny broad shoulders, spiky dark blond hair, short as velcro, pinhead sized tattoo on his small but surprisingly solid chest and muscular bowed calves, now about the thickness of Sam's pinkie finger, emerging from under the tattered napkin which he clung to as if his life depended upon it.

Except that this wasn't a replica; this was the real deal, this was 100% Sam's big brother. The irony of the whole situation was breathtaking.

xxxxx

"Well, let's find the bitch," Dean squeaked, shaking his tiny fist in furious panic; "she might not be dead yet."

Sam reached out to try to calm the diminutive figure, getting his fingertip swatted away in the process; "dude, you blew the back of her head off," he sighed; "there's no way she survived."

Not convinced, Dean turned and started clambering over the rubble around him; "we could look," he gasped hopefully, "if she's not dead, we could make her put this right for me!"

Making a grab for his brother's retreating form, Sam's massive hands encircled the entirety of Dean's torso, and lifted him up so that the brothers were face to face.

Dean squirmed and thrashed angrily from between Sam's firm but gentle grip, little arms flailing wildly as he tried to land a punch on Sam's sympathetic face, his legs still pumping frantically in mid air.

"Dean, listen to me;" Sam adopted his calmest voice; "assuming by some miracle she did survive having her brains relocated across the kitchen wall, the fact remains you still tried to kill her, so she's not going to be in the mood to do you any favours."

Sam could feel his brother's heart fluttering wildly, a mixture of fury and fear driving it into a rapid and dizzying throb.

"Put me DOWN!"

"No Dean," Sam shook his head; "you're too small. I don't want you running around on the ground, I'm scared I might tread on you."

"PUT ME DOWN!"

Dean tried to effect his most commanding tone, and failed parlously, sounding less like a gruff big brother and more like an extra from Alvin and the Chipmunks. "If you look where you're putting your great sasquatch feet you won't freakin' tread on me."

Sam shook his head again, "not taking that chance bro', sorry."

Wilting in reluctant defeat, Dean's tiny body fell limp in Sam's careful grasp.

"But Sam, this is goddamned humiliating," he mumbled sulkily into his chest.

Sam smiled awkwardly, and patted Dean's shoulder with a free fingertip in a tender show of unity; "Dean, you're ten inches high and completely naked except for a green striped napkin that stinks of cats piss; I'm pretty sure there's not much I can do to humiliate you any more," he offered weakly.

Dean looked up at the huge face hovering above him, his eyes brimming with petulant tears.

"Not helping, Sam."

xxxxx

Sam decanted his brother onto a table which appeared to have escaped the worst of the mayhem.

"We need to approach this practically," Sam mused, rubbing his forehead; "we need to gather up as much of this witch's crap that we can; books, potions, amulets, anything we can find, and see if we can't make some sense of it to reverse the spell."

Dean shrugged, nodding unenthusiastically.

"Then we need to get our asses over to Bobby's place;" Sam reflected aloud.

"No!"

Sam glanced down to see the animated figure jumping up and down on the table; "no, Bobby can't see me like this," Dean squawked; "I'll never hear the friggin' last of it!"

He smiled apologetically, "sorry dude, but we can't stay here; half the house has collapsed and that's gonna draw attention sooner or later."

Dean didn't look convinced.

"And anyway," Sam continued, "Bobby's dealt with more witches curses than we ever will. If anyone can unravel this mess, he will."

For the second time, Dean slumped miserably. Dropping onto his butt on the table, he drew his knees up to his chest and sat, hugging his bent legs like a sulking child, trying not to look at Sam.

Sam knelt down, lifting Dean's chin with his fingertip and looked directly at the glum little face in front of him.

"Hate this," Dean grumbled.

"I know dude," Sam commiserated; "and we'll do everything we can to fix this as soon as we can," he reassured.

xxxxx

Sam hesitated, breath hitching in alarm when he noticed Dean was shivering.

"Dude, you okay?"

Glancing down at his trembling body, Dean looked equally as alarmed and bewildered as Sam.

"Samm-mmy, wh-wha's wrong …" he slurred, eyes widening in alarm.

Reaching out to gather his brother up, Sam recoiled when he felt how cold Dean was.

"Jeez bro'," he gasped, pulling Dean up into his hands, and cradling him against his own warm chest. Dean's mumbled objections quieted as he burrowed against the comforting warmth of his brother's body.

Then it occurred to Sam.

He remembered his biology lessons from school; tiny bodies lose heat much faster than big bodies; that's why a shrew has to eat twice it's own bodyweight every day, and why a hamster's heart beats ten times faster than an elephant's.

Placing Dean back down on the table, Sam yanked off his voluminous overshirt, and piled it on top of his brother, wrapping the swathe of fabric tightly around him until Dean was completely swamped, only his head poking out of the crumpled mass of threadbare plaid which engulfed him.

He glared at Sam; "this really, really sucks."

Sam smiled, squaring his shoulders with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Right," he announced; " don't move Dean, I'm jus' …"

"I couldn't move if I freakin' wanted to," Dean interrupted from within his massive plaid merangue.

"Yeah, well … uh … you stay right there an …"

"That means the same as 'don't move'," snorted Dean.

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten.

"I'm gonna gather up every bit of occult shit I can find in this dive," Sam explained; "and then we're gonna hit the road."

He looked up at the little pouting face that stared back at him; "and then the first thing I'm gonna do is find you some clothes!"

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

ONE OF LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Chapter 3

Smaller doesn't necessarily mean less difficult. How can a simple task be so challenging?

xxxxx

Rooting through the rubble, Sam found everything he could think of that could possibly shed the slightest ray of light on Dean's predicament. He emptied the witch's shelves of books, her cupboards of every vaguely interesting bit of 'stuff' he could find.

Backwards and forwards he marched, tossing it all into the back of the Impala until he could find nothing more to take – he had decided to draw the line at taking the woman's three cats who all sat in the garden and eyed him poisonously as he worked.

All the while, he kept a constant check on his brother who sat, plaid-wrapped, on the kitchen table stewing in moody frustration.

"Right, Impala's packed up," Sam eventually announced, scraping a curling fringe off of his sweating forehead; "I've picked up everything I can find that I think could be remotely helpful. Lets blow this joint."

"At last," Dean grunted irritably.

Sam gently unravelled Dean from the giant overshirt, and slipped it back on, shrugging his jacket on over the top.

Then, carefully picking Dean up, Sam slipped him into the big poachers pocket on the inside lining of this jacket.

Clinging to the top edge of the pocket, Dean peered timidly over it. "I didn't realise how far up you are;" he muttered, and decided that burrowing down into the pocket's warm depths, huddled against his brother's body, was a far better aspect.

For the first time in his life Dean had to reluctantly and ingraciously accept that he was utterly helpless. it was a feeling he didn't like one tiny little bit.

xxxxx

Sam patted his pocket in a discreet show of understanding, and leaving the house behind without a second glance he eased himself into the Impala, making himself comfortable in the drivers' seat.

He took a deep breath. "Okay, so we need to get you some clothes, dude."

"Yeah, amen to that," Dean agreed, folding his arms across his bare chest; "sooner the better."

A moment of thought passed; "do you remember seeing any shops selling dolls house accessories when we drove over here?" Sam asked.

Dean glared over the edge of the pocket, his narrowed eyes glimmering dangerously; "do I look like someone who would notice friggin' dolls house accessories?"

"Uh, no – sorry," Sam set his eyes dead ahead. "Let's go."

xxxxx

The brothers put a good few hundred miles between themselves and the witch's house before they thought about stopping, and It was late afternoon when Sam began to see the bustling sprawl of a small town spreading out either side of them. He pointed the Impala down along the Main Street, busily scanning both sides until he saw exactly what he was looking for.

It was a broad store frontage painted in just about every colour of the spectrum, and a few more besides, Sam guessed. Above its welcoming threshold, in huge, jolly polka-dot letters, it screamed 'Mister Merry's Toy Box'.

He pulled the Impala into a convenient parking space, then glanced into his pocket.

Two tiny green eyes peered back up at him.

"I'm going to get you some clothes bro', there's a store over there that might have some decent stuff."

Dean climbed to his feet still clinging grimly to the edge of the pocket; "come on then," he agreed, "let's go."

"Well I can zip you inside my coat, dude," Sam replied; "but I'm not getting you out in the store."

Dean bristled; "no way Sam, I'm not letting you choose my clothes; who knows what pansyass crap you'd turn up."

Sam was not to be moved. "Sorry Dean, you'll just have to trust me; there's no way I'm getting you out in the store."

"I wanna choose!"

Sam would have been prepared to swear Dean stamped his little foot.

"Well, you can't," Sam replied calmly.

"Why the hell not?"

Sam sighed; he had far more concerning things to think about than this. "Okay Dean; one, it's dangerous; two, you might get lost; three, you're practically naked and four, the citizens of the USA generally aren't used to seeing ten inch high naked dudes running around in their main streets … you'd cause a damn riot!"

Dean glared; "and …?"

Sam took a deep breath that had 'patience of a saint' written all over it; "and… so you aren't coming out of the pocket."

As if to reinforce his words Sam tugged his jacket closed and zipped it up to his neck.

He tried to ignore the outraged little figure plastered tight against his rib cage and railing and raging inside his jacket, and clamped an arm over the twitching, jerking bulge. Strolling along the Main Street he tried to look as nonchalant as he could manage, softly humming to mask the muffled oaths that accompanied him.

Walking nervously into the store, he tried to be as invisible as possible, well aware that an unaccompanied man walking into a toyshop to buy dolls accessories could well attract the occasional glance. He also realised that having a squirming, ranting lump under his jacket really wasn't conducive to being discreet and anonymous.

He looked down and hissed a quiet plea for calm down the neck of his jacket.

"Kiss my ASS ..." came the response.

He smiled weakly to the young woman stacking a rack of teddies behind him, and giving him a very curious look

"Uh, my ring tone …" he muttered by way of an explanation, and scampered off before his rising blush risked incinerating her teddy display.

Rounding the top of the aisle, he spied what he was looking for at last, and let out a sigh of relief.

"Sammy, lemme out …"

"Knock it off Dean," he snorted into his collar, looking neither right nor left as he made a bee-line for the colourful display ahead of him.

A passing mother with two little ones shot him a dangerous look.

Great, he thought, talking to myself … not alarming at all!

She continued walking past him, her head canted, narrowed eyes never leaving him until she walked straight into a display of jigsaw puzzles, clattering them all over the floor.

Sam wanted to die on the spot.

"The hell was that?"

"Dean, please …" Sam croaked; "people are looking at me as if I'm some kind of friggin' axe murderer."

"Bite me," came the sympathetic response.

Sam's steaming frustration bubbled over.

"You're not coming out, pipsqueak, so just freakin' deal with it."

Almost instantly, the squirming body stilled.

Sam's head dropped and he sighed. He just knew Dean had fallen into a sulk. He could practically feel the little dick simmering and scheming and that could only mean bad news for Sam.

xxxxx

Finally he reached his destination, but his brief moment of incalculable relief was suddenly replaced with a slack-jawed gape of horror.

The Ken Doll outfits range stretched across four shelves.

Sam's eyes scanned the seizure-inducingly colourful display in utter bewilderment; why the hell does one little plastic dude need so many friggin' outfits?

Right. Taking a deep breath, Sam squared his shoulders and set about the task in hand.

He perused the range …

'Sparkle Hula Ken' … hmmm, as annoying as Dean could be, he didn't deserve that.

'Disco Dude Ken' … tiny or not, Dean would murder Sam in his sleep.

'Tennis Champion Ken' … uh, nope; previous experience told Sam that Dean in shorts and an alice band is not a pretty sight.

'Flushing Meadows Show jumper Ken' … jeez, doesn't this little plastic moron wear anything a normal guy would want to wear?

'Safari Explorer Ken' … weelll, the pants and the safari jacket are passable, but the pith helmet? Dean would probably try and forcefeed it to Sam.

Sam eventually settled on 'Denim Dreamboat Ken', a denim jacket and jeans ensemble with a white T shirt, and a 'Cosy Sleepover Ken' outfit that involved a pair of plain grey sweatpants and a blue T shirt with a crescent moon and stars printed on it.

Sam cringed - why the hell are girls' toys so, well, _creepy_!

xxxxx

It was then he realised that Dean had been worryingly quiet.

"Dean you OK?"

Silence.

Sam rolled his eyes; "Dean, stop sulking, otherwise I'll buy you the 'Dance Dynamo Ken' outfit; you'll look great in leg warmers."

He began to walk over toward the checkout when a tiny arm reached up and viciously twisted his nipple.

"OW!" He yelped, doubling over and dropping his purchases all over the aisle; "you little…"

He suddenly realised he was being watched by a bank of wary parents whose pre-schoolers were enjoying a birthday party and systematically dismantling the store in the process.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he plastered a shitfaced grin across his face; "stitch," he croaked weakly, making a show of rubbing his chest as he picked up the outfits, and stumbled as far away and as fast as he could.

"Dean," he whispered darkly;" you try that again, and I'm gonna throw you to those kids back there to play with."

He was sure he heard a raspberry being blown.

At least, he _hoped_ it was a raspberry.

As he made his way to the checkout he passed a rack of GI Joe dolls, together with their outfits.

Now that was more like it.

Quickly scanning the choices on offer, he figured he couldn't see Dean flopping around in wetsuit and flippers, or biohazard overalls, but a couple of sets of desert fatigues would probably go down very well with his brother.

Sam practically threw his money at the bewildered girl and her nuclear orange baseball cap behind the cash register in his hurry to get out of the store, and rapidly made his way back to the comfortable sanctuary of the Impala, secure in the knowledge that he was now traumatised for life, and that toy stores were forever going to be right up there with clowns on his 'happy to be near' list.

He unzipped his jacket and watched as Dean clambered out of the pocket into his lap, little grabby hands reaching for the shopping bag.

"What d'y get me?"

Sam was incredulous; it was like the whole nightmare in the store had never happened. All he wanted to do was slap his brother, but the words 'pick on someone your own size' roiled in his mind. He almost laughed out loud at the thought.

Sam showed Dean the four outfits, and as expected, Dean homed in gleefully on the fatigues.

"Oh man, this is awesome," he grinned as he wriggled into the outfit and spent an age rearranging it so that it was comfortable, only for both seams under the armpits to pop as soon as he raised his arms.

GI Joe clearly needed to work out on the bench press a bit more.

Sam had to smile; Dean looked as pleased as punch with his brother's sartorial choices.

Not pleased enough, Sam noted however, to offer any sort of apology.

xxxxx

It took an overnight drive before the boys reached Bobby's.

Before they hit the road, Sam had called ahead to explain that they had, um, a little problem.

When prompted, he had explained, somewhat mysteriously, that it would be easier to show Bobby that to tell him about it.

Bobby had used the word idjit at least twelve times during the entire four minutes of the conversation.

Having driven through the night, sustained on nothing but a granola bar - at least Dean's nickel-sized share didn't deprive him of too much - Sam was exhausted and famished when they reached the older man's house at some ungodly hour in the morning. Dean, by contrast, had slept soundly in Sam's pocket virtually the whole night and was fresh as a daisy.

Answering the door, Bobby was slightly confused to see Sam, hollow-eyed and dishevelled, standing alone on the doorstep.

"Hey son," he glanced either side of Sam; "where's ya brother?"

Sam sighed, and without a word, pulled his jacket open.

Bobby's eyes widened as Dean's tiny face, by now sporting a tiny layer of tiny stubble, slowly appeared over the top edge of the pocket.

"Hey Bobby!"

Every trace of colour drained from the older man's face.

"Oh balls!"

It was the only coherent sound he could manage before he crumpled into a dead faint.

xxxxx

tbc

_a/n I would like to point out that all the Ken outfits listed are not official products, simply products of my deranged imagination!_


	4. Chapter 4

ONE OF LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Chapter 4

Dean's not listening to Sam. When has that EVER been a good idea?

xxxxx

Bobby groaned woozily as he sat slumped at the kitchen table, pressing an ice pack to the spectacular lump that had sprouted on his forehead following his inelegant faceplant. He glared at Sam who stared timidly back at him from over the top of half a loaf of toast coated in Bobby's entire stock of peanut butter.

"What in hell happened to him?" Bobby asked, still not quite rationalizing the sight of mini-Dean sitting, legs akimbo, on the table, tucking voraciously into a little square of Sam's toast and seemingly wearing more of the peanut butter than he was managing to get down his gullet.

Sam shrugged; "she shrunk him," he mumbled wetly around a mammoth mouthful.

"I can friggin' SEE she shrunk him," roared Bobby; "what the hell for? How?"

"Don't know," Sam shrugged again, biting off half a slice in one go; "we were kinda hoping you might have some ideas."

They both turned abruptly as Dean let out a burp that completely belied his diminutive size.

Bobby raised an eyebrow; "I see his table manners haven't improved."

Sam sighed, as he turned his eyes away from the tiny figure; "we've brought all her 'witchy' stuff with us, there must be something in there to give us some clues."

They both glanced across to Dean, who was now sitting between them, making short work of a grape and clearly enjoying himself immensely.

"Why's he dressed like freakin' Stormin' Norman?"

"It's all I could find to fit him," explained Sam; "you see, when the witch shrunk him, she didn't shrink his clothes so I had to pay a visit to a local toy shop, and my only options were either to dress him like Barbie's dodgy husband, GI Joe, or have him running around naked."

Sam cringed at the disturbing memory of his toy shop ordeal, wincing as his nipple gave a psychosomatic twinge.

Dean suddenly snapped out of his grape-induced bliss and looked up to join the conversation which had been drifting back and forth above his head.

"Hey, quit talkin' about me like I'm not here," he snapped; "I might be little, but I'm not a freakin' moron!

The two men looked down at the tiny indignant face which was liberally coated in peanut butter and sticky red grape juice.

"You sure about that shortass?" asked Bobby.

xxxxx

Bobby sighed as he placed the ice pack on the table in front of him, and heaved himself cautiously out of his chair.

"Goin' to get some aspirins."

Sam nodded as he licked the last traces of his feast off his fingers.

"Sam, you better get yer ass in gear and start bringin' all the witch's crap in," he sighed, and looked down at Dean; "an' clean him up, will ya? He looks like he's had a friggin' PBJ facial."

xxxxx

The sun had begun to dip toward the horizon when Bobby sat down to start the onerous task of sifting his way through the mountains of books, parchments and assorted junk that Sam had liberated from the dead witch's house.

Sam marched back and forth, heaving and hefting armfuls of assorted junk, fetching and carrying, amazed that he'd managed to wedge so much stuff into the poor overloaded Impala.

Of course, not having a giant, long-legged lump of a brother sprawled across half of the front seat next to him helped enormously.

With both his companions busy, Dean had little to do but sit on the arm of the sofa and watch the comings and goings. Fresh from a dip in the bathroom basin, he was fed up, and he was cranky.

He'd tried explaining to Sam that 'real' men don't have baths; even if they are only the same height as a garden gnome. Only women have baths – baths full of stinky flowery pink bubbles and candles accompanied by Michael Bolton ballads and all that shit.

How could Sam be so gay as to not know that?

'Real' men have showers, and he just didn't get why Sam had got it into his great bitch-faced gay cranium that letting Dean have a shower was too dangerous.

Dean had argued his case eloquently; "I wanna shower, bitch!"

In the end, the whole episode had ended rather anticlimactically when Sam had just filled the basin with warm water, picked Dean up, yanked his clothes off and dumped him unceremoniously in it.

Dean's pride was still smarting and it was just another entry on his growing 'revenge' list for when he was full size again.

Jeez, Sam and his pansyass worrying was going to drive Dean to drink.

Except, somehow, drinking a drain of something out of Bobby's thimble didn't hit the spot the same way as a nice long icy draught out of a nice long pint glass.

He stared at the miniscule drain of cold coffee in the bottom of said receptacle and sighed. Who would have known the old goat did his own clothing repairs!

xxxxx

Dean slumped, returning his gaze to Bobby's back which was hunched over the table, clearly deep in thought.

Sonofabitch; this crap could go on for days. Dean's heart raced in despair at the thought.

Dean knew he had to regain whatever shred of independence he could before he went completely stir crazy, and he was going to start right now.

He would go outside to take a leak and he would do it without Sam's grabby hands all over him. Heck, the man had no concept of personal space!

When they had been on the road, on the way to Bobby's, the only time Sam had allowed his brother on the ground (although not necessarily out of his sight, much to Dean's annoyance); was to empty his bladder which, at its current proportions, didn't take a lot of filling.

Arrangements at Bobby's were somewhat less flexible, and it was a fight that hadn't yet been resolved. Sam's instruction for Dean to let him know when he needed to go had been met with an (admittedly very small) brick wall of protest, and Dean was adamant this was one minor inconvenience of his current situation that he was going to sort out on his own terms, thank you very much.

Bobby's yard wasn't exactly a verdant Eden, but Dean guessed there must be some poor, shrivelled bit of something that used to be a plant somewhere that he could secrete himself behind to answer nature's call.

Glancing back at Bobby, Dean knew the older man was absorbed enough that he probably wouldn't notice a herd of giraffes walk through the room, never mind Dean's currently miniscule form making a break for freedom, so he confidently made his move, sliding down off of the couch and making his way covertly toward the open door where Sam was still collecting a few last armfuls of junk from the Impala.

He slyly slipped across the threshold and hopped down the steps, scurrying along the side of the house toward a sorry looking gorse bush.

Stationing himself behind the bush he fumbled with his fly briefly before he remembered; "ah yeah, GI friggin' Joe," he sighed in frustration; "you might be all hard man, but you still have to piss like a girl because you don't have a dick or an emergency escape hatch in your pants to stick it through!"

xxxxx

Sam carried last pile of books into the house, kicking the door closed behind him.

"That's the lot Bobby," he called, dragging a forearm across his sweat dampened brow.

Bobby grunted an acknowledgement.

"Wanna coffee?"

"Yeah," came the response from over the dusty pages of an ancient book.

"Dean …"

Sam hesitated, and looked over to the couch where he had left Dean sitting with his last cup of coffee.

"Dean?"

His head swivelled, chest clenching in panic; "Bobby, where's Dean?"

Bobby looked up, eyes widening in horror when he saw the couch was unoccupied.

"Crap," Bobby gasped; "the little idjit slipped by me!"

xxxxx

Gyrating his way back into his pants after taking care of business, Dean paused on hearing a deep rumble beside him.

What was that? The Impala? Was Sam going somewhere?

He turned, and looked straight up into a pair of dark brown eyes.

The menacing rumble turned into a deep, rattling growl, and the meaty odour of dog's breath caught him square across the face.

For once in his life Dean wasn't pleased to see Rumsfeldt.

"Hey boy, it's me .." he gasped, backing away nervously; "c'mon Rums, you know me."

Rumsfeld's lip curled menacingly; he had heard the voice, but he was deaf to everything but his raw instinct; here was a small, swiftly moving creature which just needed to be torn apart.

Dean turned, stumbling backwards and snagging his arm on the gorse bush, and ran.

He heard the spray of gravel as Rumsfeld span and raced, snarling and barking, after him.

"Saaaaaaaaaam … Bobbbbbbbby…" Dean cried, panting for breath as he tore along the side of the house, blind panic giving him wings; the sting of the gorse scratches on his arm barely registering over the terrible burn of the hot, spittle that peppered his back, and the threatening growl that filled his head.

Suddenly the dog lunged forward, and he felt the jolt as the jaws snapped closed behind him, scraping his back and knocking the wind out of him.

Although it was only the fabric of Dean's T shirt that was caught between Rumsfeld's teeth, there was still enough force to take him of his feet, and shake him viciously. He flailed frantically, his flying elbow catching Rumsfeld's wet nose, before his T shirt gave out with a loud rip, and he was flung against the wall of the house.

Scrambling to his feet, he clutched his chest and staggered giddily as he stumbled forward trying to catch his breath; Rumsfeldt lunged again, and he managed to throw himself out of his way, watching in wide-eyed terror as the dog butted the wall where he had been only a second before.

"Saaaaaaammm …" realising he couldn't outrun Rumsfeldt, he burrowed deep into a crumbling corner between the house and the steps, curling into a panting, trembling ball and waiting for those huge slavering jaws to clamp down on him and shake the life out of him like the rat that Rumsfeld obviously thought he was.

What a stupid way to die.

Still, at least Sam wouldn't have to build a very big pyre.

xxxxx

"Rumsfeldt – git yer ass HERE!" Bobby's voice was harsh with panic and fury.

"DEAN!" Sam's was laced with horror.

Cowering against the wall, Dean flinched as something large encircled him, but it wasn't Rumsfeldt's jaws. It was Sam's hand, lifting him up and cradling him against the warm safety of his chest.

Below him, Bobby had grabbed the snarling dog's collar, and was using all his strength to hold him fast as Rumsfeld strained and tugged, barking and snapping and jumping up at Sam to reach the prey he had been cheated of.

"He okay?" Bobby asked Sam in concern.

Sam looked down at the tiny bloodied figure burrowed into the crook of his arm, heart pounding faster than a drum-roll; "don't know," Sam replied, turning urgently toward the house; "gonna get him inside and take a look."

Bobby bent and snatched up a dead branch lying in the yard, throwing it across toward the barn.

"There y'go y' idjit mutt - you wanna chase something, you chase that."

xxxxx

Sam dabbed a tiny wad of cotton wool across Dean's back and arm, spreading cool, soothing antiseptic cream onto the numerous grazes and scratches there.

The left side of Dean's body and face was mottled with darkening bruises where he was thrown against the wall, but all things considered; Sam looked down sadly at the little moon and stars T shirt, torn to shreds by the dog's attack; it could have been a whole lot worse.

But he couldn't find it within himself to be angry with his brother.

"I know you think I'm a pain in the ass Dean," Sam spoke gently as he worked; "and I know it's annoying you – heck, it would annoy me too, but you just can't go down on the ground on your own. It's way too dangerous." He rubbed a fingertip down Dean's uninjured arm in a gesture of sympathy; "this little body's just too fragile. It can't take the sort of punishment you can take when you're full sized."

Dean at least had the good grace to nod, albeit miserably.

Sam and Bobby could both see he was still shocked, still shaking so hard, he could barely see straight when he looked up at the two men who stood over him with faces still pale with shock.

"Please help me Sam," he pleaded; "I want this to be over."

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

ONE OF LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Chapter 5

Our favourite boys face an uphill struggle, but sometimes ... just sometimes, the jouney takes an unexpected direction!

xxxxx

The following morning, a hazy pink sunlight filtered across the Winchesters' room. It illuminated a film of dust floating lazily in the still air and highlighted a long shifting lump beneath a limp, green quilt.

Sam groaned as the fog of sleep began to lift, and stretched, as if he actually needed to be any longer; yawning wide enough to make his jaw crackle loudly.

Blinking blearily, he rolled over to glance at the shoe box which, up until yesterday morning had contained a brand new pair of Bobby's workboots, and now stood on top of the nightstand beside Sam's bed containing his sleeping brother and a makeshift bed of folded linen.

He leaned over to glance in the box and his heart froze.

No Dean.

"Dean?" He reached over and tipped the box up to get a better look; the linen lay flat and undisturbed, the box clearly hadn't been slept in all night.

Heart pounding wildly, he hoisted himself up onto his elbows and frantically scanned the room for signs of his missing brother.

"Dean, where the hell are you?"

Suddenly, he paused on hearing a tiny, barely audible sound. What was it? A grunt? a sigh? ... a snore?

Glancing down, he suddenly noticed a tiny body, fast asleep, burrowed up tight against his side.

He let out a deep sigh of relief and slumped bonelessly back down into the pillow.

"Hey," he gave the little sleeping figure a gentle jab in the back with his thumb; "hey Jerk!"

Dean's eyes flickered open vacantly, and drifted into focus, eventually latching onto Sam's face.

"Uh?"

"What you doing in here?" asked Sam; "that's your bed." He gestured toward the shoebox.

"Don' like it," Dean answered shiftily, "it's uh, warmer in here."

"You shouldn't be in here," Sam replied, trying not to smile as Dean sat up woozily, still struggling to shake off the grip of a deep sleep; "I could've rolled over and squashed you."

"Better'n endin' up as rottweiler chow," Dean mumbled across a long and noisy yawn.

Sam's heart wrenched as he saw the bruises colouring Dean's face, and the livid graze across his cheekbone; medals from yesterday's encounter with the previously friendly dog.

He couldn't find it within himself to be angry with Rumsfeldt. Sam knew the dog was only doing his duty; ridding the yard of anything small, scuttly and destructive. Unfortunately, this particular little creature, although undeniably small, scuttly and destructive, was Sam's 'big' brother, and not one of the rats and squirrels that Rumsfeldt was used to dealing with.

Looking up at his brother, Dean sat scratching his head and Sam could see genuine fear in his eyes.

He knew that Dean's purpose in climbing out of his box and hopping across into Sam's bed had nothing to do with warmth and everything to do wtih security. Sam knew he hadn't only developed the physiology of a tiny creature, but also the skittish, fearful psychology of one too; a terror of being utterly helpless and completely dependent on others for his safety and welfare.

Sam scooped Dean close into his side, ignoring the muffled grunt of 'great girly bitch,' and smiled sadly at the fact Dean made no effort to escape his clutches.

xxxxx

The brothers eventually rose, and after a brief episode in the bathroom; Sam learning an unpalatable lesson about not brushing his teeth over the basin when Dean was taking a bath in it (toothpaste doesn't really rot your guts when you swallow it, does it?) and an equally disturbing attempt, borne of Dean's constant haranguing, at giving Dean a shave with his beard trimmer - he so wasn't going to tell Dean about the little misjudgement and the bald patch behind his ear, Sam trudged into the kitchen, decanting Dean onto the table, and set about making a coffee.

"Hey Sam."

Sam turned his attention from the sink back to the table; "yeah?"

"Bobby's left a note." Dean read from the piece of paper in his hands; "Gone out. Sam, look after that little idjit, and don't try anything clever out of them books. If I get back and find him turned into a possum or something, I'll kick your ass into next week!"

He looked up at Sam. "Touchin' that he's got such faith in us, ain' it!"

Sam shrugged and smiled; that was quite mild compared to some of the guidance Bobby had offered in the past.

xxxxx

When Bobby eventually reappeared after his mysterious errand, Sam was sitting at the table, disposing enthusiastically of a pack of cookies, and studying a dusty, crumb-strewn tome.

Beside him, on the table was Dean, clearly desperate to help and wrestling irritably with an equally ancient and equally large book.

Sam looked up, cross-eyed from the inpenetrable text he was squinting over.

"Hey Bobby, where y'been?"

Bobby shrugged off his jacket; "uh, just taken Rumsfeldt to my buddy's over in Lennox, he's gonna stay there for a few days; well, until we've figured out what we're doing with Tom Thumb over there," he gestured towards the increasingly irate figure who had finally dragged his errant volume into an upright position.

They both watched in silent resignation as gravity took over the job and the book toppled over on top of Dean with a cringemaking thud.

"Erk!"

Sam patiently lifted the book off of the dazed and spreadeagled figure, picking him up and gently dusting him off.

"Don't say it," warned Dean dangerously.

Sam sighed; "why don't I try to find you a smaller book?"

Dean's head slumped petulantly and he kicked Bobby's thimble, splattering droplets of cold coffee across the table; "why don't you find me a friggin' cure," he moaned.

"I'm trying," Sam replied calmly, mustering every atom of patience within his being.

"I wanna help," Dean's moan was rising into a whine; "I'm sick of being friggin'useless. I can't do anything, I'm jus'a waste of goddamn space."

"Bobby shrugged helplessly; "Well, for what it's worth, you're not wasting a lot of space."

Dean's head lifted from it's sulky droop; "Not helping Bobby."

Bobby pulled up a chair; "so what ya found then?"

Sam briefly flicked through some notes he'd made; "well Bobby, I found a spell for increasing the size of your manhood," he looked up quizzically; "don't know if it works on the rest of the body as well."

"An' we're not going to try and find out either," Dean snorted, his hands gravitating protectively toward his groin.

"And I've seen a spell for increasing the size of a rabbit carcass so it can feed a whole family," Sam added, a hint of exasperation in his voice; "but that involves coating the carcass in a carefully measured mix of herbs and and spices then chanting an incantation while it roasts in the oven."

Bobby shook his head; "not appealing."

"But, I've read these darn books backward," Sam groaned; "actually, they make more sense that way, but I can't find a single damn thing that could be in any way useful to anyone!"

"So the upshot of all that," snorted Dean; "is that we've found a great big steaming pile of squat!"

xxxxx

Bobby leaned back in his chair and rubbed his brow wearily; "dammit," he sighed, "we're gonna sit here goin' friggin cross-eyed; we've no idea what spell the bitch used." He hesitated for a moment; "I don't even know if it was a friggin' spell," he snorted.

Dean's eyes widened in indignant anger; "yeah, perhaps it wasn't a spell at all," he snapped; "perhaps it was just some conjuring trick, or perhaps it wasn't even magic. Maybe she just PUT ME THROUGH THE HOT WASH!"

The little enraged figure bounced up and down on the balls of it's feet jabbing a finger aggressively at Bobby.

Bobby's face fell into a menacing glare; "shame she didn't shrink your smart mouth," he snorted. "What I mean, smartass; is that if it was so sudden it might be a curse or some kind of other jinx or hex rather than a full-on spell; something a lot more spontaneous."

He pushed one of the books aside; "judging by these books, it looked like she dabbled in all sorts of sorcery."

Sam nodded as Dean dropped down onto his butt, crossing his legs and stewing moodily.

"We've also got to take into account the fact that Ten Inch Hero here blew her brains out in the middle of whatever she was doing," Bobby continued; "It could be that this …" he gestured toward Dean, " … isn't even what she was intending to achieve, but the fact that she bit it midway through meant that whatever she was scheming got kinda screwed up."

Bobby reached across and took a swig of Sam's cold coffee.

"It could be that even ifwe find a likely looking spell, we could try a reversing charm, and find it ain't even for what she'd tried to do in the first place," he cringed; "God only knows what we could end up doing to him."

"Well aint you a friggin' ray of sunshine," Dean grumbled, becoming more and more despondent with every word that was exchanged above his head.

"Well, if we don't know what we're lookin' for or what we're gonna do when we find it, what do we do then?" Sam asked quietly.

Bobby shrugged helplessly, "I wish I knew son; we just keep lookin' and reading' and thinkin'," he scratched his head vacantly under his cap and sighed deeply; "there mus' be an answer inamongst all this crap somewhere."

He looked across at the despondent little figure on the table.

"In the meantime, we keep an eye on him; keep him safe."

"Hello; 'him' is here!" Dean pointed to himself irritably.

Bobby fell silent, seemingly deep in thought.

"Of course, there is another possibility," he murmured.

"What?" Two pairs of eyes swivelled toward him as he ran a grimy hand over the back of his neck and shrugged. "There are some timebound curses; they just put you through hell for a coupl'a days or a coupl'a weeks then just reverse themselves automatically, an' I have heard stories of other curses, 'specially if they're pretty weak magic, jus '…"

WOAH!

When it happened, it happened very suddenly.

With a fluttering whoosh that reminded Bobby of a parachute deploying and an outraged yelp, Dean unravelled to his normal size like he'd inadvertently pulled an unseen ripcord.

Time stood still as Dean floundered across the table, staring at Sam in a brief second of silent bewilderment before, with a long rattling creak and a menacing snap, the table collapsed beneath his weight sending a flurry of coffee mugs and flying books skittering across the floor and Sam toppling backwards off his chair in shock.

Bobby stared at the sight before him helplessly. "… wearing off."

xxxxx

Staring at his brother sprawled naked amongst the wreckage of a kitchen just as he had been when their ordeal began, Sam blinked through the floating dust and reflected that, actually, symmetry isn't always beautiful.

Dean rubbed his eyes, coughing weakly on an inhaled scrap of Ken's exploded jeans, and coyly pulled the tablecloth into his lap.

"Um, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I freakin' HATE friggin' witches."

xxxxx

end


End file.
